


Hockey RPF Drabbles

by missmollyetc



Series: Drabble Collection [2]
Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: 2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe-Arthurian Legend, Alternate Universe-Singer, Amnesia, Domesticity, F/M, Gen, Hockey Players-Canada, Hockey Players-Men, Hockey Players-Russia, Homecoming, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, National Hockey League, Past Relationship(s), Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:09:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hockey drabbles, usually written for prompts originally on other platforms.  Each individual chapter is a different story, and may disappear if I decide to write it into a larger work.  </p><p>Ratings will be located in Chapter Summaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heart Like a Bellows

**Author's Note:**

> written for zorana, for the prompt: "Jamie/Tyler, comfort"
> 
> Rating: General

So they lose; not horribly, and they fucking tried, but they still lost, and Jamie kind of can't help but think--but feel...he doesn't know, that losing hurts more when he's tried than when he hasn't. Like it would've been easier to let himself down first, rather than crash with the rest of the team and watch the Ducks slide on to the next round.

They're mostly alone now; the pizza ovens are off and the girls have cleared out, and it's just him and Tyler sitting at the bar. Jamie rub his thumb against the sweaty side of his beer can, and lets himself lean a little bit harder against Tyler's shoulder. It's okay, he's drunk. They've lost, and he'd drunk, and Tyler's even further along than him. He's got two bottles and an empty glass with an umbrella inside it, and Jamie's only got his two...four beers. Jamie's not fancy.

Tyler lets him lean on his shoulder, even scoots a little closer so Jamie doesn't have to slump much to get his head down on Tyler's shoulder. He's a good guy, and he smells nice, a little like powder for some reason.

"What's it like?" Jamie asks, throwing an arm around Tyler for balance. He can feel skin underneath his mouth as he closes his eyes. "Getting...getting all the way up there?"

He can feel it when Tyler shrugs, knocking Jamie's forehead into the side of his own head. Jamie pulls back, bracing himself on the bar, and opens his eyes. Tyler's looking down at his empty glass, chewing his lips. His ears are turning red. Jamie straightens up. He slides off his stool, and stands up.

"Right, that was...I'm sorry, man, that was out of line. I'm gonna...yeah, I'm gonna head back."

Tyler's head whips up and around. "No! I...look, I just don't know what you want me to say. I mean, it's intense, it's...you'll find out, you know? You'll find out next year."

"Of course," Jamie says, nodding fast enough to twist his stomach. The room is spinning a little, and Tyler's eyes are flickering everywhere but Jamie's face. Jamie smiles anyway, and signals the bartender, miming a phone and mouthing 'cab.' He's still got that going for him, at least. He can still be helpful.

"You wanna share a cab?" he asks. "You're not all packed up yet, right?"

Tyler takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. He's back to chewing his lips, and Jamie--Jamie lets himself have a wish, for the end of the year, and one loss too many; Tyler's not looking anyway. He imagines himself kissing the little cracked bruise in the corner of Tyler's mouth, and turning that kiss into a real one, of Tyler not tasting of lipstick, but just beer and salt from a margarita. It's quick, but it's nice, and it carries him all the way home.


	2. All On the Salt Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Dine, for the prompt: "Brooks Laich/Mike Green: confusion"
> 
> Rating: General

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's pirates, Brooks. Brooks, there's pirates!

He had never had a headache like the one currently pounding its way through his temples, and whatever minion of the devil had taken roost in his parched mouth was surely kicking him with hobnailed boots as further punishment. If only the captain had warned him against drink as assiduously as he had everything else Brooks had attempted to do once ashore. Brooks smacked his lips together, groaning as much as breathing, and cautiously opened one eye.

He was on ship; no building smelled, or swayed, quite like a ship at sea, but the HMS Calpurnia had been set to refitting for a week. Her hull was riddled with rot, such that the coxswain had put his entire arm through the keel with nothing but his own weight. Not even a French frigate wallowing in dead air could have coaxed her off the blocks.

Brooks sat up, planting his right arm underneath him for balance, and promptly fell back to the cot he was laid in, eyes squeezing shut as his stomach heaved in protest.

"Oh no, don't do that!" cried a voice he hadn't heard in years. "You'll kill yourself, man, just look at you!"

The sound of tsking and tutting and of pots being opened had Brooks rolling onto his side, teeth clenched, and eyes just opening. The world swam as he was pushed to his back again, while above him, the man--lanky and disheveled, with more than a day's thickness of whiskers on his thick-boned cheeks--put both rough hands to Brooks' face, and peered down at him.

"I'm really sorry," he said. "I think misjudged how much to give you, you know? But how was I supposed to realize Spike don't water down his beer? He's a prideful bastard, sure, but whoever heard of a tavern keeper that doesn't take the edge off a pint?"

"Mike?" Brooks managed, shaking his head as little as possible while the man--Mike--Michael Green the deserter--let go of his head, and came back with a viscous pot of something awful.

"Good to see you again, Brooksie," Mike said cheerfully, smiling and tossing back his thoroughly untamed hair. "I read you made Lieutenant in the lists! I was ever so proud."

"What's--what're you..." Brooks swallowed, frowning.

"Wait for the Captain, okay?" Mike said, thrusting the cup in his hand forward again. "Just drink this up--Nikky made it, so it's probably good, and when you're feeling better, Captain'll explain everything."


	3. You, Come Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Chibirhm, for the prompt: "Sid/Geno, contentment"
> 
> Rating: General

There comes a point--by now, Geno can set his watch to it--where he stops being tired and just exists on some kind of higher plane of exhaustion. His eyes don't even want to close anymore, and it's like he weighs nothing, feels next to nothing, not even the cramps in his thighs or the stiffness in his ankles from sitting in one place for, basically, an entire day. He barely even notices the pressure of the plane landing or the shudder as the wheels hit the tarmac.

The sky outside looks almost purple, and the wet, cold wind cuts through his heavy sweater and jeans. Geno shoves his hands in his pockets, nodding at the stewardess as he walks by, and follows the signs inside the terminal to baggage claim. His legs hitch underneath him, loose in the wrong spots; the ground seems harder somehow. It's early--or, no, late...early enough that the airport is nearly empty, and no one cares they're standing next to him at the baggage claim. He loads his cart with his luggage and sticks without having to sign a single autograph, and yawns into his shoulder as he hauls the cart in a wide circle, blinking at a janitor as they pass each other.

It's good to be back. The sky is getting lighter, but no drier, and fat drops smack the crown of his head as he pushes his stuff outside, gripping the grab-bar with both hands. He wrinkles his nose, yawning again, and the water slimes slow trails down his forehead to his eyebrows. Geno glances up at the sky, and gulps in a breath. He can feel little twitches in his feet, aches in the small of his back, waking up as he walks along the sidewalk to the dark grey SUV and the driver holding a sign with his name.

"Mr. Malkin?" the driver asks, pushing up the brim of his baseball hat with his right hand, and gesturing with the sign in his left.

"Da--I mean, yes," Geno says, shaking his head. English now. "That's me."

He lets the driver take his suitcases, but settles the sticks in the back himself, careful with the angles. He's got...he yawns again as he stands, rolling back on his heels and losing his train of thought. It's drizzling now, a blanket of tiny raindrops, and he still has to force himself to move forward. He pictures each step as he performs it: Grabbing the door handle, opening the passenger's side door, crumpling himself into the seat, closing the door, seatbelt. He sighs. His back refuses to mold to the seat, arching away from the leather. His hands itch horribly all of a sudden.

They don't talk on the drive home, and Geno is so grateful he gives the driver double his tip after they both struggle up the stairs to his front door with the bags. He catches himself swaying on his feet as he watches the car pull away, and leans harder on his bundle of sticks, wrapping both arms around them. He looks down at his bags, and pokes the biggest with his toe. He has too many clothes. He should just set fire to it. He looks up at the house, twisting his head over his shoulder. All the lights are off except the porch lights.

Geno's eyelids slide down. He squints out of his left eye, and licks his lips, pulling his bottom lip through his teeth.

Keys. Yes. In his pocket.

He looks down at his thigh, and sighs. He sighs again, louder. The air is sharp in his mouth, a little less wet now. Maybe he can live on his own doorstep? The rich are all crazy; he makes enough to qualify.

"Are you going to come inside?" Sid asks behind him, and Geno does not shriek like a child because he didn't hear the door open. And he doesn't fall a little bit sideways when he turns--maturely-- around.

He does kind kind of let Sid support him though. And set him against the wall of his own entryway to kick off his shoes while Sid wheels in the luggage. And breathe at him very sexily when Sid shuts and locks the front door.

"You wear my pajama to sleep?" he asks, opening both eyes briefly, before letting the right one be lazy again.

Sid laughs, rubbing his hand against the back of his head, and pulls Geno off the wall. Geno loops his arms around Sid's shoulders, and snickers into the top of his ear. "Look good in my clothes," he says. "You look better without them maybe?"

Sid tightens his grip on Geno's waist, and sighs. "How many of me are you seeing right now?"

"Kinky Sid," Geno mutters as they sway in place. "I..." His jaw pops when he yawns, and Geno's whole body shakes.

"Raincheck," Sid mutters, kissing the side of his jaw. "Let's just go to bed."

Geno nods. "Okay, Sid."

They sway a little more, Geno can feel Sid's grip shifting. He smells like the minty soap someone got Geno as a gag birthday gift. Geno slips his hand underneath Sid's shirt, rubbing his thumb into the dip just above Sid's ass. Sid shivers, giggling into Geno's throat.

"We have to go up the stairs," Sid says.

"I know," Geno says, lets Sid take a little more of his weight. "So many stairs, I was younger man when I buy this place."

Sid laughs, and Geno feels his mouth perk up to a grin at the sound. "Honey, I'm home," he says, and Sid pulls them even closer, flattening his hands against Geno's back, and making no move to let Geno go.


	4. A Very, Very Fine House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for jamyesterday for the prompt: "scene where one is excessively domestic/houseproud"
> 
> Rating: General
> 
> Phil Kessel/Tyler Bozak

Phil looked down at his feet, rubbing his toes against each other in his socks, and put his hands on his hips. “I can see my fucking face in this floor,” he yelled over his shoulder.

"Dude, that cleaning service was the best idea I ever had," Bozie shouted back. 

Phil jerked his head up as feet pounded down the hallway, and grinned as Bozie surfed across the kitchen, catching himself against the breakfast bar. Bozie whooped, hauling himself upright, kicking out with his fuzzy socks. Phil crossed his arms, hunching his shoulders, and snorted.

"Your idea? Fuck man, who got the—the card from Dion?"

Bozie licked the corner of his mouth, and leaned back against counter. “You,” he said. “But it was still my idea, big man.”

"Oh really," Phil said, taking a step forward.

Bozie’s hand drifted from his side to touch his fly. He smiled. “Yep.”

"Really?" Phil asked again, putting his hands out for balance. The fucking floor really was slippery.

"Oh yeah," Bozie said, voice lowering.

Phil felt his smile widen, lips opening just as touch. He lunged, and Bozie swerved, arms flailing, yelling loud enough to set Stella off. Phil grabbed the breakfast bar for balance, turning with a squeak of his socks.

"Gotta keep it clean for the cameras, babe!" Bozie jumped over the back of their couch, cackling. 

"I promise to swallow," Phil muttered, and charged.


	5. Dirty Pop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the anonymous prompt: "at least one of the pairing is a famous musician"
> 
> Rating: General
> 
> Joe Thornton/Tomas Hertl

Joe’s too old for this shit, and that’s not just a line. He can fucking feel it at the end of each concert, when he’s shoving Tomas through the service entrance of some arena’s kitchen ahead of a thousand shrieking fans and their equally terrifying mothers. He feels it from the tight ring around the back of his head and right down to his aching feet. 

Nothing ever seems to bother Tomas, though, who goes from tech to shaking his ass in front of a sold out show to breakdown with the same bounce in his step and beaming face. He’s probably the best protectee Joe’s ever had, which is half of what makes trailing after him worthwhile, never complains and never sneaks off without telling someone. It’s a good gig, it just makes him tired.

"Tonight, I am very happy we stay in hotel," Tomas says, leaning into Joe’s shoulder as he shuts the door of the limo, and bangs on the partition. He presses his face into Joe’s neck, breathing in and sighing out heavily. "Or is plane?"

"Just the hotel," Joe says. He pauses, and then curls his arm around Tomas’ shoulders. 

"Whole bed, whole night to us," Tomas says, laughing when Joe squirms under his tongue.

"Gonna be the death of me, kid," Joe mutters, sinking down into the seat.

Tomas laughs.


	6. Shift the Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the anonymous prompt: "one of the pairing has no memory of the other"
> 
> Rating: General
> 
> Geno Malkin, The Lemieux family

It’s about a week after the Lemieuxes take him home from the hospital that he even thinks to ask, and when the thought occurs—well, really, when he’s off the painkillers for long enough to even have a thought that sticks around—he feels kind of stupid. He asks at the end of dinner, and the awkward silence that follows makes the food gurgle in his stomach. He’s 26…27 or so according to Dr. Erul, and he plays in the NHL. Mario Lemieux lets him stay at his house, of course he makes enough money to have a place of his own.

Mario and Nathalie look at each other; Mario sighs, and Nathalie shakes her head, lips thinning. “Austin, take the plates into the kitchen,” she says. “Let’s go into the den, eh?”

He swallows, watching them all suddenly bust into activity, Nathalie and Mario pushing away from the table and the children chattering too quickly to be normal. He’s gotten used to them speaking more slowly, taking care of his head and his inability to follow along, cheering when he’d remembered enough to answer back. He clears his throat, and stands as well, fidgeting with the hem of his borrowed t-shirt. 

"It’s okay, Evgeni," Nathalie says, holding out her hand. "We just need to tell you about—about a friend of yours."


	7. Only Live Alone Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the anonymous prompt: "one of the pairing has no memory of the other"
> 
> Rating: General
> 
> Tyler Seguin/Jamie Benn, Jordie Benn

Jordie brings him home once the doctors tell him Jamie’s not in danger of seizing anymore, which means Tyler’s got a solid hour to make sure the house is perfect. He goes through the upstairs' floors, making sure all the blackout curtains are in place, and that the dogs are in their playroom, and the fridge has Jamie’s favorite food, and that all the medication the pharmacy sent over is lined up right next to the kitchen sink so that Jamie doesn’t even have to reach too fast for a glass to drink them down with, and that Tyler didn’t leave anything on the floor for them to trip over when he comes back and it’s fine, it’s all fine. Jordie’s text said Jamie was fine, and just to be ready and that’s what Tyler is. He is ready.

He hears the car pull up on his fourth circuit, just as he steps down from the staircase, and Tyler’s socks squeak against the hard wood as he races to the door. He leans forward on his toes, reaching out for the doorknob, and then jerking his hand back. He takes a deep breath, and grabs it again. He is ready, this is fine. Jamie’s home, and Tyler already made him a blanket nest on the couch so he can watch tv while he gets better.

He opens the door just as Jordie’s clearly about to put his key in the lock. Jordie rocks back, and Tyler swallows, looking past him to where Jamie is leaning against the side of the house. Jamie blinks at him, and Tyler’s already past the door, shaking off Jordie’s sudden grip on his shoulder, one step to throwing his arms around Jamie’s middle and never letting go.

"Dude, since when did we need a house-sitter?" Jamie asks, looking at Jordie.

Tyler stops moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with an [ending!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768390/chapters/4798788)


	8. All Your Sentimental Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for askmehow for the prompt: "Sid/Geno, jubilation"
> 
> Rating: General

It was after the battle, after the bodies were counted and burned, and the wounded dragged screaming back to health under Mario’s effective, but pitiless magic that the reality of winning hit Geno. In a daze he walked through the camp, noting Sir Paul with his page, liberally decorated in gore, and Sir Pascal with his woman at their shared cooking fire, all laughing loudly enough that it almost seemed like shrieking. His own skin felt like nothing, a shell to harness armor to, and then suddenly the general’s tent was before him, one pole listing to the side, and a battered standard, and he had— they had won, but it was not enough.

Had Geno’s heart been stone it would have cracked at that moment, sundered by the return of heat to his belly and breath to his lungs, the weight of his own muscle bearing down up on his back. Here was his general’s—no, his king’s tent, striped yellow and black, and inside would be—had to be—

Geno gulped air, stroking a useless gauntlet over and across his hauberk, and hurried into the tent, stripping off his coif as he ducked inside. Candles had been lit inside, set at each corner of the tent in precise lengths, and Geno took in the heavy travel desk covered in maps, the empty chairs, and abandoned goblets from yesterday’s final meal in a single glance. His heart stopped as his eyes did, upon Sidney barely covered by the curtained stand in the furthest corner, half-naked and facing away from him.

“You live,” Geno said, and a stone was lifted from his chest; he could breathe again. They had won. “I knew, but I not see.”

He rushed forward, banging his sword against the desk in his haste, and Sidney turned to meet him, smiling and reaching out to him. His hands braced themselves on Geno’s hauberk, and then wrapped around the back of his head, bearing him downward into a kiss. Sidney tasted of metal, of that sour bloody tang that spoke of Mario’s magic, and Geno yanked his gauntlets off his hands to fall to the floor. He spread his hands over Sidney’s bare chest and down to his belly, breaking their kiss only to return to it, until Sidney’s laughter passed from his mouth to Geno’s and back again.

They broke apart, but Sidney’s hands remained in place, keeping Geno’s head tilted downward. “You are well?” he asked, licking his reddened lips. “I was given to think you had taken an injury.”

“I’m check on Beau,” Geno said, shaking his head and ducking forward for another kiss, catching Sid’s lip with his teeth. “Mario has him. And you? My king?”

He grinned, feeling a rush of heat like the sudden stoking of a fire as Sid rocked on his feet, and smiled back at him, fiercely, with all his teeth. Geno slid his hands around Sid’s waist, pulling him closer and Sid came, plastering himself against Geno in all his filthy armor. The force of his kiss bent Geno’s head backward. Tomorrow they’d make the trip back to the castle, to home, and a hot bath and good food. Sir Christopher was no doubt knee deep in coronation plans already, arguing with Sir Marc Andre over the seating and which of their allies had best be kept away from each other and the good silverware. Tomorrow, he’d swear fealty as a knight of the Round Table. The nightmare of war was over; tonight they had won.


	9. Wear My Mind on My Sleeve (I Have a History of Losing My Shirt)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for shihadchick for the prompt: "Duncs/Seabs, impatience"
> 
> Rating: General

The door was locked again. Still. Duncan sighed, and sat down in front of it, crisscrossing his legs. “Are you coming out yet, or what?” he yelled.

Something heavy thudded against the door, shaking the hinges. Duncan winced, and glanced down at his watch. Right, so the movie was probably out, but if they ate— Another heavy whatever smacked into the door, and Duncan rolled his eyes up at the ceiling.

“It’s been, like, fifty years!”

“Spoilers still count when the movie came out yesterday!” Seabs shouted back. “You fucking knew I was looking forward to this!”

“But it’s our day off!”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you told me the ending!”

Duncan snorted, and then slapped his hand over his mouth, glancing over his shoulder at the empty hallway; the dogs’d stayed in the living, the cowards. Seabs still sounded really mad, though, which wasn’t surprising since he’d been throwing shit at Duncan’s head for fifteen minutes until he’d gone to sulk and throw more crap at their bedroom door. God, it was fucking precious; Seabsie’s face had gone red and his hands had gone every which way….

“But it’s a whole thing!” Duncan spread his hands at the ceiling. “It’s like…he’s always been the Winter Soldier, I can’t make this shit up.”

“Hannibal never eats Will!” Seabs yelled. “True and creepy love denied! That one rat lady in the thing dies.”

Hey. “This is not my fault!” Duncan yelled through the wood.

The door handle clicked, and Duncan sat up straighter, hands on his knees. Seabs opened the door, glaring above and then quickly down at him on the floor. Duncan tried not to grin. “Would you just forgive me already? I made reservations at that place with the steak in the shape of Kaner’s head.”

“Is Bucky still the Winter Soldier?” Seabs asked, one hand on his hip.

Duncan sighed, and rested his chin on one hand, propped up on his knee. “Yes.”

“Then no, assmunch.”

The door slammed shut.


	10. Bass Gets Loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for stepquietly for the prompt: "Caps ensemble, please. Drunk. Bonus points for Wardo being trapped again! "
> 
> Rating: General
> 
> Washington Capitals and Brooks Orpik

Sasha squinted up at the speakers hanging in the corner of the bar they'd finally wound up in after...no, they'd started out with at least some Penguins, yes? Zhenya, surely. He looked around their corner booth. There was Brooks--no, not HIS Brooksie, the other one, mean Brooksie and there was his Brooksie, next to his Carlson and his Chimmers. The sound screeched above him, and everyone, including the waitress wearing too many clothes, but with nice, full trays, winced.

"Is something bad with this speaker," he said, tilting back and letting Nikky's shoulder keep him upright. The vinyl cushions on their booth squeaked beneath him.

"No, it's Wardo," Nikky said, pushing back until they were both more or less sitting up. He raised his hand, and pointed with the fingers not curled around the neck of his beer. "Eric won't stop making him sing the...the two people songs."

Sasha blinked and swayed left, hauling himself up and around the waitress now plunking down fresh pitchers and one entire box filled with cocktail umbrellas. On..."When did we decided to sing?" Alex asked, letting Nikky pull him back inside.

"Troy did it," Mean Brooksie said. "He said we could."

"He is not captain!" Sasha yelled. The nerve! "He is...he cannot sing. How did I get here again?"

"You told the cabbies you knew karate and they left us here," Not Usually So Mean Brooksie said, and picked up an umbrella. He twirled it in the air, and kept twirling his hand a few times after losing it. "It's kinda nice to do something together for a change."

He had a point. The speaker crackled, and Sasha frowned. "Wardo can't sing this song," he said. "It has bad language. Wardo!" he yelled, and stood up, batting Nikky's hands away. "Wardo, no, leave this disco stick for someone you love!"


	11. Got You, I Don't Need a Parachute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for jamjar for the prompt: "Eddie Lack/Bobby Lu, possessive*"
> 
> Rating: Explicit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::clears throat:: Her attendant asterisk must be preserved for posterity!
> 
> "*Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a single emotion for them? I mean, punctuation, no problem: "Eddie Lack/Bobby Lu, !!!", "Eddie Lack/Bobby Lu, ?!?!?!?", "Eddie Lack/Bobby Lu..." it's easy, but one emotion when really it should be "Eddie Lack/Bobby Lu, FEELINGS!"...
> 
> Not easy, that's all I'm saying."
> 
> <3 <3 <3

The thing about Eddie is--and Lu seriously had not seen it coming--but thing really _is_ is that once Eddie kind of...he gets to people. Eddie fucking loves people, all right? And he's never afraid to show it, heart on his sleeve and plastered all over the internet, backed by the toothiest smile Lu's ever had the pleasure of kissing. And it's great, it really is, if the worst part of his fucking day suddenly becomes leaving their bed instead of, oh, getting shit on by his own fucking organization, he'll take it. Or, he'll make Eddie take it. Sometimes twice.

Only now he's got what he hadn't been looking for, of fucking course the Canucks give him what he'd wanted. He fucks Eddie on his back, goalie flexibility curling him up and keeping him balanced on Lu's shoulders, ruining all their pillows with lube and sweat. He fucks him until they're both red in the face, breathing each other's air and scrambling to hold on. He'd bought a fucking cock ring, even, walked right into the shop and dared anyone to take a photo, because if he's going the next day (oh darn, not so many flights to Sunrise fucking Florida out of Vancouver), he'd wanted a night to remember. Eddie's always beautiful like this, curled beneath him, red cheeks and bright eyes, hands bracing them both on the bed-frame. Now, though, now he's gasping, moaning little bits of words that might be 'Roberto' and might be just noises. His right leg has slipped down, curling tight around Lu's waist, and his cock is so stiff it's bouncing between them, leaking stripes across Eddie's stomach. Lu bottoms out, and stays there, gasping for breath, and lets Eddie rock himself for a change.

He puts his hand on Eddie's chest, pressing down on his ribcage, and shakes, feeling his muscles shiver, fighting the urge to get closer and deeper inside of Eddie's body. Eddie tosses his head from side to side, shaking away his stick straight bangs, and grins at him. His eyes shine.

"How long will I feel this, eh?" he asks, laughing.

Lu jerks his hips forward, and Eddie arches, groaning. "Long as I want you to," he says, which...makes no sense, but who cares? Who really fucking cares anymore? Just as long as Eddie does feel it, and remembers who did it, and why.

He bends down, has to slip out a little to get there, and kisses Eddie, suckling his tongue until he's swallowing Eddie's whimpers as well. He pulls back, staring down into Eddie's eyes, and shudders when one of Eddie's broad hands suddenly clamps down on his shoulder. "When I stop," Eddie says, still smiling, "I will come get you in Florida. You can show me your swamps."

"I'll have to think of some other way to keep you dirty." Lu kisses him, pulls back, and wraps his hand around Eddie's cock. They've got at least another hour before he has to pack, and Lu hates leaving a job unfinished.


	12. Says That I Look Taller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for citybrights for the prompt: "Phil Kessel/Tyler Bozak, contentment"
> 
> Rating: General

"Is the door open?" Tyler says into Phil's shoulder, arms slung around his waist and thumbs curled into his belt loops. He sighs, pushing his cold, kinda greasy nose into Phil's neck, and Phil is the world's biggest sap. He grins, tucking his chin to his chest.

"Yep," he says, jingling the keys in the lock. "You ready to walk like an adult, buddy?"

"Fuck you," Tyler says, yawning. "I drove back from the thing, you walk like an adult."

He tightens his arms, pulling at the waist of Phil's jeans, and mutters under his breath, while Phil laughs and opens the door. He steps forward into the dark entryway, slowly, letting Tyler shuffle behind him.

"Where's the baby?" Tyler asks, side-stepping to keep himself glued to Phil's back. Phil hears the door shut behind him, sharply enough that Tyler must've kicked it.

"We're supposed to pick Stella up tomorrow, remember?" he asks. "She's helping Amanda pick up dudes."

Tyler snickers, and pulls back when Phil tries to move them towards, like, a light switch or the bedroom. His left arm drops as he tugs Phil around in a circle. Phil blinks Tyler into focus, squinting a little in the dark, with only the smallest burst of streetlight to help him out. Tyler slings his free arm over Phil's shoulders and pulls him in, casual and automatic, and Phil goes with it, because they're home and tired; Tyler smells like stale Doritos and flat coke, but so does he.

"So..." Tyler waggles his eyebrows, smiling crooked, and Phil reaches up to touch the lopsided corner of Tyler's mouth. Tyler kisses his thumb.

"Bed," Phil says. "yeah?"

Tyler groans. "Shower," he says. "Shower and then bed."

He rubs the top of Phil's shoulders, long fingers digging into the muscle, and Phil is warm along every part of his skin, even the parts where they aren't touching. He steps back out of Tyler's arms, and grabs him by the wrist.

"Shower, and then bed," he repeats, already leading the way. "Sound awesome."

"And then you fuck me awake," Tyler says, mid-yawn, and Phil laughs.


	13. Lost Track of Time, Might Be Past My Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for chococat for the prompt: "Sid/Geno, adoration"
> 
> Rating: Teen

Just because Sid'd shown Geno all the good spots to take a breather in the stadium didn't mean he'd meant for them both to disappear. Sid wriggled back a step, hands flexing on Geno's waist, and grinned into their kiss. "No, no," he said, turning his head so Geno's lips landed on his cheek. "We're gonna be..."

Geno caught his mouth again, biting down on the center of his bottom lip and pulled him, gasping, back against his body, wrapping his arms around Sid's waist, and palming his ass. "Is fine," he muttered. "Is good here. I'm think Sid so good review tape on weekend, deserves good reward now."

He smiled when Sid giggled, and tucked both hands into Sid's back pockets, squeezing. Sid's back arched as he caught himself with both hands on Geno's shoulders. "Just because, oh," he tilted his head up, eyes closing as Geno nuzzled his neck. He licked his lips, and gasped. There'd--there'd been an appointment with... "Oh there," he said, "there, it's--Geno, Geno--" Sid slid his hand up and around the back of Geno's neck, gripping his hair. Geno bit down on Sid's shoulder, right in the sweet spot, and Sid's muscles turned to liquid. He pressed closer, pushing them both back against the wall, and shivered when Geno moaned his approval. It was Saturday, after all, and their parking meter had at least another half hour on it.


	14. Hope in Small Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for slashpile for the prompt: "Brooks Laich/Brooks Laich's Groin, DISAPPOINTMENT. CRUEL DISAPPOINTMENT."
> 
>  
> 
> Rating: General

ESPN's switched over to some kind of marathon when Brooks wakes up; it'd been some kind of talking heads show when he’d fallen asleep, but now it’s the best of the best of top ten lists of crappy ideas, or something. He blinks at the tv, licks his lips, and scratches his chest with his right hand. He spends a lot of time on his couch these days, sacked out in his sweat pants, the same white sectional he’s had through two moves and however many seasons. He glances at the pink vase in the corner of the room, and then at the coffee table. He should dust more. That’s what mum always says, anyway, and it’s almost like he can see her, tightening her mouth at the vase he bought and the coffee table some dude going back to Hershey said he could have. Like falling down on the dusting is really the problem, when it took him three minutes to get of bed this morning, and another five to walk down his own fucking stairs.

He swallows, and rubs his heels into the couch cushion. The remote’s fallen to the floor, and he reaches out as fast as possible, grinding his teeth as he levers himself up. His fingers skim the buttons, just as his thigh starts to shake, and Brooks falls back, sucking in air. He breathes in and out a few times, breath hot and cold in his mouth, while his groin muscles burn themselves out, and there’s only the numb dead ache in his gut. He swallows, and lets his head fall back onto the arm of the couch.

The tv suddenly switches over from some ketchup commercial to a shot of Alex, and Brooks grins, watching as Alex swoops around behind the goal and then warm his hands on his stick. He remembers that, the sound of the goal horn and the yelling on the bench. He loves those sounds. The announcer comes on, and starts talking shit about controversy, but Brooks remembers that moment, the way it lit something up in all of them, Alex’s fucking roar in the locker room, and fuck if he cares what some suit and tie has to say. Alex has that way about him, of making their team the best or the worst, but never just…nothing, a non-event. They’re going places this season, Brooks can feel it, there’s room to improve and time to do it in.

He flexes his toes, and winces. He’s gonna have to get up pretty soon, maybe make dinner, but maybe not. Maybe next time, he’ll talk to the trainers about setting up some kind of home kit, rather than letting them shoot up his thigh at the arena, save everybody some time. The tv’s playing something about golf now, polite clapping and a green hill. Brooks presses against the back of the couch carefully, holding his breath until he’s stretched out. It was good he took today off, keeping it simple this early in the season; it was an optional skate anyway. Tomorrow, he’ll be better.


	15. The Terror Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For citybrights, who wanted "Anything Phil/Bozie"
> 
> Phil/Bozie
> 
> General

It's not that Phil hates...no, it is. He hates to fly; the noise, the seats, the flight attendants asking him if he wants a pillow. Phil doesn't want a pillow, he wants a valium. In fact, he's pretty sure he'd been promised a valium before they took off, and from the way Dion's been avoiding eye contact, he's pretty sure that asshole knows it. Phil swallows, grimacing, and clears his throat. He wiggles in his seat. There's just so much _air_ beneath him and the ground right now. 

He takes a deep breath, and coughs. Plane air always tastes like dust, and he's pretty sure Orrsey and Kadri are having a farting contest up at the front. Fuckin' a. He shifts in his seat again, ducking his head and frowning down at the seatbelt. They'd stuck the other new guy next to him--Broner, or Bozman, or whatever--and he hasn't moved once since the flight took off. It's a little freaky, like, the guy hasn't even gotten up to piss once. At least he's in the window seat, Phil doesn't need to stare death in the face while he'd riding in this coffin. Phil rubs his left hand over his face, scratching around the pimples under his chin. Fucking helmet strap always breaks him out, and then they fucking pop 'cause it rubs against them so then they scar and--

The plane fucking drops a foot and then bounces back up again, sending cups tumbling into the aisle. Dion shouts, and something bangs against the upper compartment door.

Phil's teeth clack together, trapping the tip of his tongue between them. He slams his hand back down on the arm rest, and squeezes. " _Jesus!_ " he spits. 

The plane's wobbling, little taps up and down, as the captain's voice comes out of the speakers.

"Sorry about that, folks," she says. "Looks like there's a bit of a wind storm passing over New York state, and our flight plan takes us along the edges of it."

Phil swallows, and tightens his grip. He breaths in through his nose, and out through his mouth a couple times as the captain continues:

"At this point in time, I'd like to remind our passengers to stay in their seats until the seatbelt sign has been turned off. Flight attendants will be coming up the aisle to remove trash and any unsecured articles."

The lights flicker as the speaker shuts off. Phil licks his lips, and swallows again. Beside him, Brozner or Browman coughs. "Uh," the guy says, and Phil glances over.

The guy smiles, and he's got a thin, lazy mouth, one side's higher than the other. He's kinda pale, almost green really, and there's sweat on his forehead. He looks down and coughs again. Phil follows his gaze, and his stomach twists. He's jammed his hand over the other guy's, where they've both been clinging to the armrest.

Phil peels his hand up, shaking it out and then wipes it across his chest. "Sorry," he mutters.

"No, man, I know what you're--like, no problem," the guy says, and Phil looks up to see him shrug. The guy clears his throat, hacks a little, and crosses his arms over his chest.

"I fucking hate these things," he says, rolling his eyes. "The fuck's wrong with, like, driving?"

Phil nods, and tucks his hand under his right arm. "Yeah," he says. "I mean, it would take longer, but you don't have to put up with all this shit."

He slouches a little, because the guy's watching him, and this is seriously the most Phil's seen him do since they got on the plane. Maybe he gets motion sick, though, or is...trying to not move so much so the plane doesn't either, or whatever. It's...Phil's tried that before.

"I try not to think about it," Phil says, and the guy jumps.

"Yeah? Oh, I guess that might work, sure, but I can't help it you know? Planes, man. They're not our friends."

Phil snorts. "Yeah."

The guy sits back in his seat, hunching his shoulders a little, and Phil watches him out of the corner of his eye. He's got dark hair and wonky eyebrows, but there's something nice about the curve of his jaw. Phil sucks air through his teeth, and looks away, making sure nobody's looking their way. The plane wobbles and Phil holds his breath until it settles.

"I'm Tyler," the guy says, and Phil nods, looking back over. He ducks down, too, leaning in to...just because. 

"Phil," he says. "Phil Kessel."

The--Tyler nods, grinning briefly. "They call me Bozie."


	16. Running For Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex Ovechkin/Alex Semin
> 
> Rating: G

It wasn’t really…it wasn’t like Sanja hadn’t noticed Sasha wasn’t happy. And it wasn’t like he’d…he’d _noticed_ the media, he wasn't stupid. He read the little snide asides in the papers, the lies the internet loved to chew over like cows in a field. He’d even told Sasha so himself, they’d talked about it, and yet Sasha just _wouldn’t_. He wouldn’t speak English to the reporters, he wouldn’t smile for the cameras, he wouldn’t show them the good man Sanja knew, and he acted like Sanja was the one who didn’t know what he was talking about.

And now here they were. Sanja was in DC, watching Sasha play for Carolina on the television, and all he could see was Sasha’s smile.


	17. Twitter-fic Ending to That One Tyler/Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RATING: GENERAL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO APPARENTLY I AM A BIG MEANIE and [professorbutterscotch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/professorbutterscotch/pseuds/professorbutterscotch) and [bropunzeling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling) have the proof. THIS IS FOR THEM, and also the other two people who got a little upset with me. ::grins::

[professorbutterscotch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/professorbutterscotch/pseuds/professorbutterscotch) : wow so [this chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768390/chapters/3784132) destroy me AND NOW I NEED THE FIC 

[missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc) : THANK YOU AND I'M SORRY!  


[professorbutterscotch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/professorbutterscotch/pseuds/professorbutterscotch) : howwwww dareeeeee youuuuuuu  


[missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc) : JAMIE FIGURES OUT WHY TYLER'S HANGING AROUND PRETTY QUICKLY, THOUGH! IT'S BECAUSE HE'S DATING JORDIE.  


[bropunzeling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling) : no i think that one deserves a HOW DARE YOU THE FUCK MOLLY

[missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc) : IT'S JUST SO OBVIOUS! JORDIE'S ALWAYS WATCHING TYLER WHEN HE THINKS JAMIE ISN'T LOOKING, AND ONE TIME TYLER WAS SAD FOR SOME REASON, AND JORDIE HUGGED HIM IN THE HALLWAY FOR*EVER.*  


[bropunzeling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling) : you are disowned FOREVER  


[professorbutterscotch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/professorbutterscotch/pseuds/professorbutterscotch) : literally what have I ever done to you  


[missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc): ::pouts::  


[bropunzeling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling) : MAKE THIS BETTER MOLLY  


[missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc) : NOTHING, DON'T WORRY, JAMIE HAS MARSHALL!  


[bropunzeling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling): ((((((((((((  


[missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc) : WHAT, JAMIE IS RECUPERATING, DOGS ARE GOOD FOR THAT.  


[missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc) : OKAY!  
So, once Jamie stops having dizzy spells every other day and can sit up for more than 4 hours, he decides that Jordie needs to know that the whole amnesia THING didn't make him a different person and that he loves Jordie 

[professorbutterscotch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/professorbutterscotch/pseuds/professorbutterscotch) : "when did we get a dog?" Jamie asks Jordie, petting the dog. Tyler makes sad eye contact with Marshall.  


[missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc) : and thinks Tyler's almost too awesome for words--in a very platonic way!--so he needs to stop hiding his love away or whatever. Jordie takes this...poorly. And after sputtering, excusing himself to DIE IN THE HALLWAY, and coming back in, he explains using very small words that, while Tyler is his overly handsy bro, the love that cannot be denied actually belongs to JAMIE, and they were just waiting for him to have consecutive coherent days 

[missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc) : before telling him about it. Jamie is VERY RELIEVED because THOSE PLATONIC THOUGHTS WERE HELLA SEXUAL and he didn't want to bust in on his own bro's love connection. Jordie further explains via yelling that Tyler has been a ball of twinky desperation for WEEKS over this, and that now Jamie is better they can commence Operation Cuddle and leave him and Marshall the hell out of it. He and Jamie bro-hug it out, Tyler comes in and Jamie asks him 

[missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc) : if he has any pictures of them dating and Tyler's ENTIRE FACE lights up like the fourth of July. They go through his private instagram while Jordie makes dinner, and then smooch a ton. THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [bropunzeling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling): YOU ARE REOWNED NOW
> 
> [professorbutterscotch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/professorbutterscotch/pseuds/professorbutterscotch): YOU BEST
> 
> [missmollyetc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc) : ::BOWS::


End file.
